ancient vestments (a black velvet cope, amongst other robes, as
fresh as yesterday, and presented by that notorious "pervert," Henry
of Navarre and France), and the statue of St. Lucius who built St.
Peter's Church, on Cornhill.

What a quiet, kind, quaint, pleasant, pretty old town! Has it been
asleep these hundreds and hundreds of years, and is the brisk young
Prince of the Sidereal Realms in his screaming car drawn by his
snorting steel elephant coming to waken it? Time was when there
must have been life and bustle and commerce here. Those vast,
venerable walls were not made to keep out cows, but men-at-arms, led
by fierce captains, who prowled about the gates, and robbed the
traders as they passed in and out with their bales, their goods,
their pack-horses, and their wains. Is the place so dead that even
the clergy of the different denominations can't quarrel? Why, seven
or eight, or a dozen, or fifteen hundred years ago (they haven't the
register at St. Peter's up to that remote period. I dare s